Stranger
by SuperSonic21
Summary: He looked over, once or twice. His eyes were piercing and a little bit intrusive for a stranger, but I'd never seen him before, I was completely sure. - 'Eternal Sunshine...' AU. You don't have to have seen the film. Post-TRF. Eventual Jonhlock.
1. Chapter 1

I'm not an impulsive person. I work hard at my job, and I enjoy it, but today I called in sick, when I wasn't.

"I can't come in today, Sarah . . . Yeah . . . Food poisoning or something, I think . . . Sorry . . ."  
I wanted the day to myself. I decided to go to the Italian restaurant I think I went to once to meet Harry or something, because it seems to stick in my mind. But, of course, London during February – bloody _freezing_; snowing, too. _Yeah, nice one, Watson. _

I had some clinic paperwork to catch up on, anyway. I took my laptop with me, in an effort to be productive. I thought about posting on my blog, but I couldn't think of anything to write: it's all the same, really. Go to bed, go to work, watch TV, eat, and sleep again. I like it, though – I enjoy just _getting on_ with it. That's why it was weird for me to just skip a day, and I still can't remember what possessed me to get on the Northern line rather than Piccadilly, but I'm glad I did.

There's not a single entry in my blog, much to the disappointment of my therapist, Ella. I'm thinking of firing her anyway. I don't have a problem with my leg, I don't have bad dreams anymore, or PTSD. I'm not sure why I haven't cancelled my blog yet, actually.

I sat somewhere in the middle of the restaurant. I faced the window, which showed the snow outside, like a big screen-saver just for me – aside from the bloke sitting at the table in the way of it. I hadn't sat there because it was reserved, so this was the closest I could get. It was sort of, like . . . When a tall person sits in front of you at the cinema, and your heart sinks, and right throughout the film you can't stop thinking about flattening the guy's hair down so it doesn't get in the way so much. This guy was no different, blocking the snowy street view with his curly hair and over-tall, skinny frame. He wore an expensive coat – the type that wouldn't suit someone short, like me – and was clearly well off.  
Oh well. Some people have all the luck.

He looked over, once or twice. His eyes were piercing and a little bit intrusive for a stranger, but I'd never seen him before, I was completely sure. Still am. He examined me like a specimen most times, except . . . The _first_ time he looked over, he looked softer, and friendlier. It quickly faded, as I kept looking at him in a questioning way: I wouldn't usually have such a brass-neck about looking a stranger in the eye, but I feel like he wanted me to. I can't imagine why.

Of course, it being around lunchtime, there were other people in the restaurant, but they were just, sort of . . . Ordinary. More in my league, actually – I felt a little bit unworthy to be looking at someone who was so dashing, while I myself was greying and ageing. But, then again – he'd taken the window seat. If he didn't want to be looked at by accident as people gazed, like I was, aimlessly out of the window, he wouldn't have sat there.

I met him again on the way home, although I hadn't noticed him leave the restaurant at the same time as me. As I boarded the train back to Baker Street, he got on behind me, though he looked as if he clearly didn't use the tube often. He looked about shiftily, at the unusually sparsely-populated carriage, and said to me, "Hello,"

I was a little startled at his direct approach to me. I wondered, a bit worriedly, if he fancied me or something. It's just that it was . . . A bit against the traditional stiff-upper-lip, stoical, _British _way of dealing with strangers on public transport to just come up and greet someone.

"Hello," I replied with a quick smile, but then looked anywhere else but his face. He didn't look away, though, I noticed from my peripheral vision, as he continued:  
"You don't mind me talking to you, do you?" He asked, though the words seemed a bit strange to him, if his perturbed expression was anything to go by.  
"Um . . ." I considered it for a moment. ". . . No – no, it's fine," I replied, but wondered internally if I was being come onto. I'm not good at meeting new people – 'trust issues', Ella says.

"Where are you getting off?" He asked, raising his eyebrows in expectation of an answer, as if this were a perfectly normal question to ask a stranger on the tube. The lights flickered a bit overhead, as we headed into a tunnel from the latest stop. I supposed, though, that there was no harm in telling him:  
"Baker Street,"  
"I know a woman who lives on Baker Street. A Mrs. Hudson – I'm on my way to see her, actually. At 221," He replied casually, though it looked, if I could see his expression properly from the angle and in the rubbish lighting, a bit forced.  
"Oh," I replied, surprised at this rather massive coincidence, "That's . . . Where I live," I was a bit suspicious for a moment, but he didn't appear to have any malicious intent. I reasoned that Mrs. Hudson's response to him would tell me whether or not he was telling the truth.  
"At 221b? – I used to live there! I did her a huge favour once, so she gave me cheaper rental of it – but . . ." He sighed, and looked away from me, at the handrail his right hand was holding onto, absent-mindedly. ". . . It was a long time ago,"  
"Oh," I replied again, not really wanting to pry, as the sound of screeching from outside the carriage and the lack of topics made conversation impossible temporarily. I thought to myself: I too am benefitting from reduced rent. It's reduced enough for me to afford to live in this area, unbelievably. I realised that Mrs. Hudson must just offer low rent to every tenant that could protect her and keep her company, in order to make them stay. She's very endearing, with her silly _ways_.

We both steadied ourselves against the ricocheting of the train by holding onto several luminous yellow support bars, our expressions neutral. Then, my new acquaintance looked as if he wanted to say something, "I'm, Sherlock, by the way. Sherlock Holmes," He held out a hand for me to shake, and I took it with another quick smile.  
"Doctor John Watson," I replied, with a little bit of pride to introduce myself as a doctor, I'll admit, even after all this time.  
"Is there still a chunk missing from the fireplace?" Holmes asked abruptly, a smile pulling mischievously at one side of his lips.  
"Like a stab mark?" I asked, smiling at his obvious knowledge of my flat, as the previous tenant, and nodding.  
"I did that," He replied, with a hint of pride. My smile faltered, and I frowned:  
"Why would you do that?"  
"Oh, I don't know . . . I have to keep my letters _somewhere_, and stabbing them to the mantelpiece seemed the best option . . ."  
"I see," I told him. I didn't.

We alighted at Baker Street, and Holmes and I walked to my doorway, where he knocked on the door, exactly as if he owned the place.  
"I have a key," I mentioned.  
"What? – oh, yes, well – I want to see-" He responded, presumably about to say my landlady's name, when the woman herself appeared at the door.

She was smiling kindly, her eyes bright and cheerful, until she set eyes upon my companion.

Something strange happened to her, which I can only really guess was a product of some past happenings between them.

"Sh –erlock?" She asked, her voice breaking, and tears welling at record speed in her eyes. One of her elderly hands clung to the doorframe tightly, I could see, by the whitening of her knuckles. The other flew to her mouth in what appeared to be surprise – shock, even.

"Mrs. Hudson," He acknowledged, and stepped inside, allowing me past as the landlady rushed to him and embraced him in a tight hug, sobbing openly onto his expensive coat. I could hear her whimpering something barely comprehendible into the fabric of his coat. Though I was a bit suspicious of what he'd done, the way he was comforting her with a kindly hand on her back, leading her to 221a, with a stormy and sad expression himself, was enough to dismiss my concerns.

I shuffled upstairs, dumping my rucksack down just inside the door of 221b and retrieving my laptop. I could hear her, still sobbing, as the door to her flat slammed shut. I was treated to an hour or so of silence, bar a few muffled sounds from downstairs, which I used to finish off the last of my backlog of paperwork from the clinic. This achievement put me in a good mood. That was before the knock at my door.

I opened it, and there again stood Holmes. He smiled at me, and strode in without a word.

He stood in the centre of my front room, and his smile disappeared, replaced by solemnity and distain. Clearly, he didn't like what I'd done with the place – _I_ don't like what I've done with it either, really, seeing as I haven't done much. It's all impersonal Scandinavian furniture, and a telly, and an armchair, and a sofa with no cushions. There's a nice writing desk, with my laptop on it, and a few tall yet empty bookshelves, bar my books on anatomy and physiology.

He turned slowly around, shaking his head. I raised my eyebrows in inquiry, and he floundered for a second:  
"It's just . . . Different," He said, in reply.  
"Mmm," I agreed, though obviously I didn't know what it had been like before. I took a dispassionate look at my flat, and vowed to actually _do _something with it one day.

"Military clean, though. All sort of, _neat_," He added with an inexplicable gesture, as what I think was supposed to be a compliment.  
"What?" I asked, a little bit uneasy as to how he'd not only had the luck to be able to legitimately follow me home, but also had an inkling into my military past. He looked as if he were about to offer an explanation, opening his mouth; he shut it again, just as quickly, and pointed at the small photo of Harry waving me off to go to Afghanistan.

"Ah," I acknowledged, feeling a little embarrassed of my unwarranted suspicions about Holmes.  
"Is that your sister?" He asked, walking to the picture and picking it up gently.  
"Yeah – Harry. I wouldn't have it up, but she came round and insisted. She said this place needed evidence that I had a family, or friends, or wasn't just a robot – actually, I was thinking it's a bit _bland_,"  
"Indeed," He offered quietly, and set the picture down again, with a hundred-yard stare. He stood looking at the picture for a good minute, before I cleared my throat.

He took my awkwardness as a sign to leave, and whisked around, striding quickly to the door, and told me: "Well, I'd best be off, for now. I'm living at a hotel at the moment, but I'm thinking about moving into 221c,"  
"Are you sure?" I began to caution him, "There's quite a problem with-"  
"Damp, yes – there always was. But . . ." He paused and smirked to himself lightly, "I've been living abroad for three years, travelling. Believe me, I've stayed in much worse conditions – a bit of damp won't kill me,"  
"Well, get someone in to sort it out, at least," I told him with a smile.  
"Of course. I'll see you later, John Watson," He told me, quite formally, pausing at the door to offer me a brief smile.  
"Goodbye, Holmes," I said, and like that, he was gone.

Holmes seems interesting enough, but I'm not sure he'll be too good a neighbour.  
Well, after this strange day, at least maybe I can have something to blog about_. _

* * *

___For Alice. _


	2. Chapter 2

_February, 2012. _

"Tell me why you're here,"

I could only look in complete confusion at the doctor sitting opposite me. Doctor Peterson was an older gentleman, quite rich, and with a monopoly on the service he offered.

"You read the papers? . . . And you, you watch the news?"

The doctor just stared back at me with the same steadfast expression as always. His blue eyes were faded, and weary; I supposed he'd had the same difficult conversation with many patients that day, but I didn't really care, because mine _had _to be the most . . . The _most_ . . . Important, if that was the word. In terms of life events, mine was probably the most traumatic, but I wasn't about to blurt that out loud. I wondered when I'd become so inconsiderate and selfish – probably just one of _his _traits, so lovingly dumped on me before he decided to . . . Decided to-

"I want to know what _you're_ here for, John," He told me, addressing me by my first name in a way that felt kind of creepy. He wasn't a creepy man, but in the context of why I was there, for him to pretend that we had some sort of patient-_therapist_ relationship, rather than patient-_doctor_, was unnerving. I wasn't going to even remember him, soon enough.

"Sher-" I stopped, because I couldn't even say the rest of his name. The doctor eyed me with a mixture of incredulity and pity. I tried again, not wanting to be defeated, or for him to usher me along. "My best friend . . . Sherlock Holmes . . . Is dead,"

The doctor leaned forward, pushing my application form on its clipboard to one side, and clasping his hands together. He leaned his forearms on the table, and fixed me with a stern expression.  
"Go on?" He encouraged, all the while scrutinising.  
"I watched him jump . . . Well, he phoned me up. We were on – we used to do these _cases_, like I say, we were on the news a month or so ago . . . We were on a case. He told me to come to the hospital, but when I pulled up nearby, he told me not to come any closer. He went off on this . . . _Spiel_, about how he was a fake. I _knew_ he couldn't be a fake!" I heard myself getting angry, but I didn't care. "I _knew_ he was for real, because he'd proved it over and over," I sighed.

"Take your time," The doctor advised, though the subtext of _hurry up_ was more audible to me.

"He told me to tell everyone that we knew that he was a fraud, and then he . . . Jumped, from the roof of Bart's morgue. He committed . . . He killed himself, right in front of me,"

There was a moment's pause. I felt a sort of rage build up inside me, as I replayed the events of that fateful day over in my mind, finding my own reaction more terrifying due to my knowledge of how people dealt with grief.

First denial.

"_No one could be that clever,"  
". . . You could,"_

And Bargaining.

"_Just, do one more thing for me - one more miracle . . . Just, please . . . Don't be – dead. For me, Sherlock – please?"_

He supposed he was dealing with anger now, though he'd already dealt with depression.

"_I can't go back to the flat, Mrs. Hudson . . ."_

He just couldn't find acceptance. Not without the help of Dr. Peterson, and his unique procedure.

"Suicide of fake genius . . . Yes – now I remember," Peterson told me, and re-examined my application form, leaning back as he looked at it again. I took a dislike to him, at that moment, because it was clear he'd remembered Sherlock's story from the start, but had been running some sort of hideous _test_ on me, to see how I reacted. After all, it was hard to find anyone that _didn't _know Sherlock's story, or at least the version the press bombarded me with every day that I knew for a fact wasn't true. It was just hard to know I was right, when everyone kept screaming at me that I was wrong. Unbearable, to be honest; I couldn't cope.

"So . . . The consulting detective?" He asked. I knew what he meant, of course, and nodded.  
"Well, then . . ." He began, and beckoned in his assistant to record what he said on paper, while simultaneously turning on a tape recorder, just to be thorough, I suppose.  
"Tell me everything you can remember about Sherlock Holmes,"

* * *

_February, 2015. _

A week or so later, I'd almost forgotten about Holmes, when he moved in downstairs. He mostly kept to himself for the first few days, but honestly, I don't think he was in much. I would hear the door slam at all times of night, but I didn't mind, really. I slept well anyway.

On Tuesday, Mrs. Hudson beckoned me into her flat when I got home from the clinic. She'd made me a cup of tea, and told me there was one for Holmes too, if he wanted it. I thought that he seemed more like a coffee person, but didn't mention this. He'd be up all night, probably, if he had one now.

I took both mugs, and awkwardly opened the slightly ajar door to 221c to deliver the tea to my neighbour. There was a short flight of stairs to the flat, which were lightly laced with damp, as I'd been warned in the past. I navigated my way down the stairs carefully, trying not to spill the over-full cups as I went. I knew Mrs. Hudson had the best intentions in mind when she overfilled them, but in practise, they were quite a nuisance.

"Holmes?" I called out, rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs and appearing in the main room of 221c. It was a cramped room, which could have potentially been cosy, if there were any sort of furniture or upholstery that didn't involve a cardboard box. There were about three medium-sized boxes in this room, and a cursory glance through the open door of the bedroom showed one box in that room. He didn't have many possessions, then.

The room was all dark brown floorboards, and dark green wallpaper. There was a single bulb light hanging from its plastic-covered wiring from the ceiling, casting angular black shadows onto everything, and creating quite an oppressive atmosphere. Holmes seemed unaffected by it, though.

The main feature of the living room was the large wall display: there were posit-it notes and photographs stuck up all around, and the man himself was scribbling furiously on a bit of paper, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in a way that I thought was funny, but decided not to laugh openly at.

I realised the reason there was no furniture to speak of was that he was sitting on the only piece: a battered green leather armchair, which wouldn't have looked out of place in my own flat. It fitted the sort of green-ish colour scheme. It smelled a bit musty – I remembered he said he'd been abroad for three years, so all his tuff had probably been in storage.

His head jerked upwards to look at me, his eyes alert and a bit wary. He cast his analytical gaze over me. I wondered what his background was – he reminded me of a time just after I'd come home from Afghanistan, fresh from the warzone, when I'd thought everything was a threat. Sudden noises frightened me back then; in a similar way to the way I'd shocked Holmes at that point, I think.

His face brightened slightly with a smile, which then turned slightly sour. _Oh. It's you_.

"Oh. Good evening, Doctor Watson. And you've brought tea," He noted politely. I could see, though, that he was shaking slightly. It was very silent in the flat, I realised. So I'd probably startled him even more than I'd thought.

"Yeah, there you go," I told him, as he reached out to take the mug from me. I recoiled slowly, and then stood there awkwardly for a few seconds. I looked around, and then asked out of politeness,  
"What're you working on here, then?"  
"Hmm? . . . Oh, just a case,"  
"A case? – Are you a lawyer?" I inquired – it seemed like the best fit of a career for a man like him. Posh, educated, and no doubt rich, too.

He smiled bitterly as he looked down to continue writing, "I'll try not to take that as an insult," He paused to finish the note, before getting up and sticking it to the wall.

"Oh," I said dumbly, and then cursed myself a bit. All I ended up saying around him was 'oh'. "So, what _do _you do?"  
"I am a . . . I'm a private investigator, I suppose," He finished after a period of consideration. He said it as he said everything: quietly, and with a small, forced smile. It looked as if he'd been taught to smile by someone who'd just told him 'the sides of your lips go up'.  
"I see," I replied. "What type of thing do you deal with?"  
"Oh, all sorts," He replied blithely, "When people are out of their depth – which they _always_ are – they come to me. Cheating boyfriend, girlfriend, stolen car, stolen money, stolen _office supplies_ – they all come here," He explained. "Didn't used to be this way, though. I used to deal with murders, kidnaps – I used to work with the police, but-" He paused, and turned towards his wall, putting his hands on his hips, where his expensive yet musty dark purple shirt and trousers met. ". . . Not anymore. They don't call,"  
"Mmm," I said by way of comforting him, but I supposed it was a bit rubbish. I didn't really want to draw out his obviously sad memories. I took a sip of my tea, and the silence in the room settled.

I had to say _something_. I pointed to the wall display:  
"So – you've got a client, then?" I prompted. He shook his head, and stepped back to where I was standing, admiring his work, which looked a bit like paper mache.  
"No, this one's personal," He mumbled.  
"Can you share?" I asked, pleasantly interested. _Nosey bugger_, I told myself.  
"Well," He began, and pointed to the pictures of people, which were a little grainy and slightly blurred, as if taken secretly without their knowledge. I supposed this was one of the key skills of a PI. "It's quite a substantial case. The police won't touch it, so it's up to me. I can't just stand by, and watch-" He sighed, collecting himself. He'd sounded a bit angry before. "It's tough to explain,"  
"Looks complicated," I agreed, surveying the wall endlessly.  
"Indeed, it is . . . Dr. Watson, in all your medical experience, have you ever – sorry for asking, but have you ever come across a company called Lacuna, Inc.?"

I considered it for a good while, but came up with nothing. I shrugged.

"Hmm. Thought not. It's pretty underground, it seems. Or, at least, I can't get at them . . ." I muttered towards the end. We stood in silence for a few minutes, before he suddenly realised I was still there, and told me:  
"Thanks for bringing the tea. Much obliged,"  
"Any time," I told him, cursing my choice of words – I knew the unsociable hours he kept, and was afraid he would take my offer literally. He seemed a bit socially inept. "See you around,"  
"And you," He called, as I walked out of the room, and up the stairs.

Later, I thought about Holmes, alone in his little basement flat, and wondered if he had any friends or family to speak of.

He said the police didn't call – what had he done to put them off? I thought that I'd never heard of the police working with an amateur before, but maybe he was just _really _good. I didn't know if that was even allowed, and I didn't know what you'd have to do to piss the police off so much they excommunicated you.

He seemed lonely. He looked quite young – perhaps thirty five? Or early thirties? Something told me he was older tan he looked, though. Maybe it was his eyes. Not because he had circles beneath them, like basically everyone else, but just because they seemed a bit far away. I didn't understand what could have possibly happened to make him this way.

He never had any visitors, bar me or Mrs. Hudson. He didn't appear to sleep, if the state of his perfectly-made single bed was anything to go by; but then he didn't appear to have any time to unpack his three boxes, either. Maybe he just didn't want any of the stuff in them. I knew what that was like. I'd been the same with my personal effects after Afghanistan.

I think I still have them at the back of the wardrobe in the spare room, actually. I don't look at them anymore. I don't go in the spare room. It smells like someone else, strangely enough. Maybe it's from when Holmes lived in the flat, before I did.


	3. Chapter 3

_February, 2012. _

It took a long time to get rid of everything Sherlock owned from our flat, and even more time to decide that what I was doing was right. I'd pick up something of his, and have to reconsider over and over again.

I had about a dozen dustbin bags full of his stuff, in the end. His periodic table, his portrait of Edgar Allen Poe, his violin, his glassware. I couldn't quite bring myself to have it dumped after the procedure, so I asked them to put it in storage for me. I don't know why. I didn't really care. I'd made up my mind now, and so I stocked our flat with bland flat-pack furniture, so as not to remind myself him. I kept the wall colours though, and the wallpaper.

When I got to the clinic, Dr. Peterson explained that they were going to map my brain, using his objects to get emotional responses from me, or something. I wasn't paying full attention. I knew was that it was technically brain damage. I didn't really care about that much, either.

I wanted him gone.

I sat in the stupid chair with the awful head apparatus, and they told me to relax. I supposed it was some kind of brain scanner, but I gave up on thinking a fair while back, so I didn't ask.

"So, if you could just, respond to these items as I present them to you?" Dr. Peterson's assistant told me. He was young, and bright, and ginger with freckles. He looked about twelve years old, which was _reassuring_. I nodded, stupidly, bumping my head on the scanner. I was a bit out of sorts.

"Okay, first item . . ." He prompted, holding up the Sudokube. All the fun of a Rubik's cube, with numbers.

_How the hours must fly by_.

"Whoa, okay – lots of memories in _this _area . . . And over _here-_"  
"I could never do this," I told them. "Sherlock was always the one who-"  
"Um, actually, Dr. Watson, the scan works best if you _don't _vocalise your emotions – it lessens the response on the brain scan,"  
"Um, sorry," I apologised even though I didn't really mean it.  
"It's okay . . . Now, this?" He presented Sherlock's skull. I felt sick because it was _the skull_. I felt dizzy because he was dead. I felt like these were exhibits in his murder inquiry, but how could it be, when he had killed himself . . .

"Are you alright, Dr. Watson? You look a bit peaky. . . . ?" The twelve-year-old asked me. I fixed him with a stern glare, despite the fact I was going green and having to calm down my breathing, and muttered:  
"That's your medical opinion, is it?"  
"Relax, John. You're doing fine," Dr. Peterson tried to reassure me. I pretended to relax on the outside, but inside, I was in turmoil. I heard the assistant murmur in a way he thought was 'quiet' a few times.

"It's going to be one of the biggest we've ever done . . . This is great!"

I sighed. That boy didn't know when to shut up. It reminded me of someone.

When we were done with all of his bloody possessions, they were mailed to a storage depot, and I went home with a pill and a pack of pyjamas. They told me to put on the pyjamas around eight o'clock, and then to take the pill.

I was killing time until then. It came all too slowly, because at that point, I couldn't bear my loss anymore. It wasn't like a loss, though, it was more like the gaining of an increasingly loud screeching sound in my life, causing me pain all the time, and inaudible to everyone but me. I didn't realise, until it was too late and I was too mired in self-pity and self-loathing, how much I depended on Sherlock fucking Holmes.

I tried not to resent him for what he did, but it was a pretty shit thing to do, so I couldn't quite manage it. I hated him a lot for what he did to what he did to me, as well as himself. I wondered what I'd say to him if I could speak to him one last time – after all, that phone call didn't count. Not really. He only made it because '_that's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?_' He hadn't even wanted to say anything. He just wanted it to be over, apparently. Selfish bastard. I couldn't believe I wanted him back. I pretended I didn't.

He mustn't have cared about anyone else, ever. Molly didn't go to work for a month after his death, Lestrade still had counselling. Mycroft . . . I don't know what happened to him. He disappeared off the radar, and good riddance. Part of me blames him, because he basically pushed Sherlock off that hospital. He gave Moriarty the tools to make Sherlock want to die, and what else would a consulting criminal to do, other than exploit them? I didn't even blame Moriarty, in the end, as much as I blamed Mycroft.

Or as much as I blamed myself.

_How did I not see this? How did I not stop it? Why didn't I . . . What did I . . . What did I do to deserve this? _

It was selfish, but as I changed into my pyjamas, took my pill, and tucked myself into my cold bed, I was relieved because I would have these thoughts about my own fucking uselessness going around my head all the fucking time.

Maybe I would sleep better now.

I _did_, afterwards. But you can't sleep _better_ if you have nothing to compare to. And sleeping better doesn't always mean you deserve to.

* * *

_February, 2015. _

I visited Holmes a few times, with tea as pretence, in order to make myself feel better. I told myself that I had to do something about his loneliness, because it would make me a better person. I'd messed up enough dates recently to feel like a completely crap person, so this, I reasoned, was evening me out.

Besides, he wasn't a complete weirdo. Sometimes, he was funny, or nice. He was extremely intelligent, which probably accounted for his social problems,. I wondered idly, as I watched him reason out the relationships of his clients in front of them, insulting character assassinations and all, if he had a touch of Asberger's syndrome about him.

Today wasn't a day for paying clients, but for his personal investigation, though I didn't know it. I didn't really know what made it personal – he wouldn't tell me – but he seemed very into it. He threw himself into every piece of work that came his way; every client that knocked on his front door, and travelled down into the basement.

I knew he had a client downstairs, so I decided not to bother him, even though I usually would go and see what he was up to, and make sure he'd eaten that day, at around that time, for medical reasons.

There was an unexpected knock at the door, startling me slightly. I put down the Times, and hastily opened the door, expecting one of my former girlfriends giving back something I'd forgotten to take with me when I'd left, or Mrs. Hudson asking for my rent, or a delivery man, though I'd ordered nothing.

Instead, an attractive young woman in her thirties stood on the other side of my door. She was blonde, with brown eyes, freckles, red lipstick, and black eye makeup. She wore what I supposed was a fashionable green mac, and shiny black shoes that were quite high. She looked like a businesswoman, with her hair all done up, but she didn't behave like one. She had a quivering upper lip, and her face was blotchy and red. Her words were shaky at best when she spoke.

"Is – is this where Mr. Sherlock Holmes lives?" She asked, being struck suddenly with an idea, and pulling a small, crinkled piece of paper out of her pocket. "221-"  
"221c – sorry, he's downstairs,"  
"But – the information in the paper, it said-" She began to show me the paper cutting. I stopped her with a hand on hers.  
"It's wrong, sorry – I think he took an ad out in the paper at one point. He used to live here; people are always saying they saw him in the paper. I live here now, but . . . I can show you down, if that's okay? I think he's in with someone right now, but he'll be done soon, they've been a while,"  
"Oh – thank you, um . . . ?" She asked, putting the cutting away before I saw it.  
"Dr. Watson. Call me John," I smiled at her.  
"Oh – of course," She replied with a watery smile. I imagined she was quite beautiful when she wasn't so upset by _something_. "I'm Jessica,"

At first, crazily, I assumed she was Holmes' girlfriend, even though '_Mr. Sherlock Holmes'_ was a bit formal, and he'd probably mention which flat he lived in to his girlfriend. She was pretty enough for a handsome man like Holmes, but then again, I'd made the stupid mistake of presuming he was interested, emotionally, in other people, and was capable of making connections with them.

I chatted to her about anything that came to my mind as we travelled down the few flights of stairs to 221c. Mrs. Hudson gave me the eye from her doorway as we walked past, and I rolled my eyes at her. The previous client – a man in his forties with silver hair, a tanned complexion, and an exhausted face – walked past. He looked as if he might talk to us, pausing in the hall and opening his mouth for a second. Instead, he turned away, and told Mrs. Hudson, "Thanks for the coffee,"  
"That's quite alright, dear. I hope you two are getting along better now,"  
"Me and Sherlock? Yeah, right. Here's hoping – have a nice evening," He strode out of the door hurriedly, clearly bothered by whatever he and Holmes had been discussing downstairs. He walked like he had somewhere important to be, but didn't look like he was angry. More sort of, generally _bothered_.

"Come on, this way – down into his _lair_," I muttered. She even managed a laugh, though she was definitely still very upset about something or other. I felt a bit embarrassed for him at the state of the damp.

He stood, as always, facing the ever-expanding wall collage. He heard us approach, and turned around with a bright expression that I think was supposed to be comforting, and reached to take his client's hand.  
"Ah, hello. You must be Jessica Fairfax. I'm Sherlock Holmes. Please – have a seat," He told her, shaking her hand, then indicating the one armchair. I wondered why he didn't just buy another seat. She looked a bit uncomfortable being stared at by the two of us. I tried to sneak away before she started speaking.

"No, stay – you said you wanted to know what the case was about? . . . Don't mind Dr. Watson, Miss. Fairfax, he's aiding me on the case,"

I sighed. When had we agreed that?

". . . Okay," She replied warily.  
"Thank you for contacting me. You've already helped significantly, but I'd like to hear your story in full," He explained, and then settled leaning on the collage wall. I awkwardly leant on the doorframe, and crossed my eyes, looking anywhere but at the other two people in the room.

She paused, but then rummaged in her shiny black handbag. She took out a piece of card, and handed it to my neighbour, who looked at it, no doubt analysing it. He couldn't quite remain as emotionless as he usually was, though: he seemed sort of, _excited_. I think that was the word for it, anyway.

"Just to prove I'm not crazy," She added.  
Holmes merely held up his hand, not looking away from the piece of card, and made a gesture for her to skip that part.  
"Well – I had a fight with my boyfriend a month or so ago,"  
"When about?"  
"Um – maybe, the start of February? . . . Anyway, we've had our issues,"  
"Alcoholism?" Holmes asked, but he already knew. It's just one of those things about him – he can tell your life story at a glance.  
"I didn't mean to say it, but – I brought up his drinking," She agreed, overlooking the fact Holmes somehow knew about her personal life. "And he got just, _so _angry . . . He walked out. It's not the first time it's happened, but this time was different, because when I went to go and apologise to him – I went to his work, and he looked at me, and he . . ." She took a deep breath, "He didn't recognise me,"

I probably stared more than I should have.

"Continue?" My neighbour said.  
"He didn't even know who I was. He kept saying he didn't know me, and that if I didn't leave, he'd call the security guards," She was crying again by now.  
"And when did you find this?" Holmes asked her, a bit quickly, about the card.  
"Let's see?" I whispered. He handed the card over to me wordlessly.  
"About a week ago," She replied, although she was having trouble getting sentences out.

My social anxiety was off the scale. I'm not really someone who gets affected by awkward situations that much, but this was way too much for me to handle. I had no idea what to say, so I took the card and read it. It said, '_Ronald Adair has had Jessica Fairfax removed from his memory. Please do not bring their relationship up._'

"And where did you find it?" Holmes asked her, as I raised my eyebrows and puffed out my cheeks. I couldn't really decide what to do, other than show my complete shock and confusion at what was going on.  
"I found it in my sister's kitchen. It was under a load of letters, but I found it, just as she was telling me to forget what had happened, and make a clean break with him. Obviously, I'd been thinking about it non-stop since the day at Ron's work, and this . . . This just confirmed that I wasn't being _completely _delusional, especially when she said something about how I _shouldn't have seen it_,"  
"Indeed. Now, there are a few details I'd like to go through with you – particulars, dates and times-"

Holmes took about twenty minutes constructing a makeshift diary from Jessica Fairfax's memory. Again, I considered leaving, but just when I was about to make my move, Holmes told me to show Miss. Fairfax out. I did so, and when I was about to return to my flat, Holmes appeared in the hallway.

"What do you think, then?" He asked, pointing at me.  
"Hmm?" I frowned.  
"What could have _possibly _happened?"  
"Dunno. Could have been anything. All seems completely mental, of course,"  
"Yes . . . And yet . . ." He paused, and stroked his chin, putting his other hand on his hip. I waited patiently for the end of the sentence, which I knew would eventually come my way, ". . . _Organised_. John, all I've done today – well, aside from the visitor before her – is interview people who say similar things to her. Boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, _children_ . . . They've all forgotten, and someone's come looking to me for answers,"  
"You asked them to come here?"  
"Of course. I need them. More data,"  
"About what? – why?" I spluttered. Surely – playing with people like that for his own needs – he'd know it was _wrong _to do that?  
"Because I think a company is causing people to forget, and I need to stop them,"

He went away abruptly, seeming angry or upset. Yet again, I failed to completely understand what was going on, but didn't particularly mind. Confusing though his behaviour was, I didn't mind it.

He was pretty amazing to watch, when he got going. Earlier on in the week he'd . . . _Deduced_ (his word, not mine) which barber shop I'd been to. He always knew if I was going to come and visit him, just because he could tell how tired I was, _just_ from my footsteps two floors up; he worked out if I was up to dealing with him from my level of tiredness.

Then there were his cases, which I interrupted or sat in on sometimes, as a sort of hobby. He could usually tell a suspicious client whether they were being cheated in under a minute. He could always work out the culprit within a few minutes; his longest case had been two days long. He worked in specifics and detail, and his brain was always working at full capacity. Even when he embarrassed a client, commenting on the fact they were clearly a secret addict or had a gambling problem, he was completely thorough and correct as he did so.

Fantastic, I'd thought. I'd said it, too, and he'd looked happy, for a while.

Holmes was a smart man, undeniably. I didn't really know if he was a good one yet.


	4. Chapter 4

**_AN: Trigger warning for suicide. Also, thanks for all the reviews, favourites and alerts, they're much appreciated. - B. _**

* * *

_February, 2012. _

"I won't miss this one much," I told Sherlock, and I think he smiled down at me from the roof.

"I know," He told me, but it wasn't him. It was just an echo of how I remembered him to be the day he died, speaking to me via his mobile.

I was reliving my own memories, in reverse-chronological order, and they were being erased as I went through them. This was the first one, the most recent, but I knew it was a trend, because they'd explained what would happen. I didn't know how long the process would take for me, but for them, it would only be as long as one night.

When I woke up, there would be no more Sherlock Holmes. He would be gone, forever.

I sighed, and approached the landing spot, against his wishes. It was only a memory, so what harm could it do? I crouched, and rubbed my palm along the rough concrete, tracing the cracks his blood was going to flow through with my finger. He was still on the roof at this point.

"So, you jump, and then I run around. The biker-" I pointed to him, approaching from far away down the street, "-Knocks me over, and I can't hear properly, because I'm in shock. So far, so simple. But what always gets to me is the fact that I don't actually see you land. I see your body and everything, and it's all white, and covered in blood, but I didn't see the impact," I recalled.  
"Is it necessary to see the impact?" He asked.  
"Well, _no_. Not when you're on the pavement with blood everywhere," I replied.  
". . . But?" He asked.  
"I don't know. I guess I'm still in denial. It's probably why I wanted to forget you in the first place – I'm not over what happened here yet," I confessed.

I looked around: it started raining. The biker approached, in slow motion, from down the street. Sherlock didn't say anything this time.

"It was a pretty shitty thing you did, Sherlock," I said, very quietly, into the receiver.  
"I know," He answered, equally quietly, as if we were pretending not to have the conversation. The yellowish grey sky above us yet the downpour through. I saw Sherlock stepping onto the ledge.  
"You'd do it over again, though, I suppose," I sighed.  
"Yes," He told me.  
"But _why_? I thought you were okay – I thought you enjoyed your life . . ." Tears were welling, but it's not as if there was anyone to be embarrassed in front of.  
"I only know as much as you do," He responded.  
"Yeah, but . . ." I paused, and shut my eyes, as he told me again what I already knew.  
"This is your memory. I'm not real," Trust Sherlock not to sugar-coat it. I smiled despite myself. I really did miss him. Even his stupid habits were comforting, even though they weren't real, they were just my memories.  
"But you _sound_ like you. You _look _like you. Why can't you be _you_?"  
"Because I'm dead, John,"

He jumped then. Or rather, he didn't jump. He just sort of stepped off the edge of the building. I wondered if it was even Sherlock, for a moment becoming hopeful that it wasn't. Why wouldn't Sherlock be dramatic, and jump? That wasn't the Sherlock I knew.

Then again, had I known him at all?

He killed himself, and I didn't even know there was a problem. I didn't know how seriously the campaign by Moriarty to ruin his reputation had affected him. I didn't know he was a fraud; I didn't know if he was lying, or telling the truth, when he said that.

_I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know_ – there were just too many things I didn't know about him. I remembered the people who'd sent me cards when he died. I didn't even know most of them, but it clearly didn't seem to them that he was a fraud. Who _was_ Sherlock Holmes? The tabloids had been asking for a month now, and I didn't have an answer.

Well, they wouldn't ask anymore. They're received their letters from Dr. Peterson.

My breath hitched, rather than stopping like it did first time round.  
"Sherlock . . ." I mumbled, my voice slurred, just like before. I dropped my phone, watching him do the pavement dive. His coat billowed around him like he was a superhero.

_Heroes don't exist, John, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them. _

"Jesus – God, no – "

He landed, and I didn't even hear a noise. His body lay there, lifeless and bent already. He was gone.

I watched the biker sail past where last time I was running, and the area where he hit me. I turned back, and Sherlock's eyes looked at me, unblinking.

"You never seemed like you'd given up," I murmured, crouching down beside him to take his pulse, as the people around me came in a flurry to pull me away. It felt like a secret when I said it.

"You blame yourself," He told me, even though he was probably dead by now. I didn't care that he was still talking to me, even though his lips weren't moving.  
"Of course," I whispered back.  
"Don't worry," He told me, "I don't blame you,"

* * *

_February, 2015. _

The first night I got woken up by my neighbour, I woke up with tears on my face. I'd been having a nightmare, probably, but I didn't remember what about. I didn't even feel sad.

I could hear raised voices, two floors below. A sort of shouting match was taking place, and it certainly wasn't with Mrs. Hudson. In fact, it was so violent that I decided I'd better intervene.

I put my slippers and dressing gown on over my pyjamas, and left my bedroom, though it was bloody freezing. I caught dribs and drabs of the argument – it sounded like a brawl at a Harrow debating club, with snooty, well-educated voices. I raised my eyebrows, because the subject matter, however intellectual, was causing screaming.

". . . –supposed to bloody do! I can't just stay here, not going out in the day, in case someone sees me and tells the-"

I grabbed my keys, and the sounds they made chinking together made me miss the next part. The next part was a different voice, the one that definitely wasn't my neighbour.

"-should have been more careful! What if he'd apprehended you? They still suspect you – the work I had to do to make sure they didn't-"

I shut my door, losing a few lines of the argument again. I couldn't get every word exactly right, but it sounded pretty serious.

"-What _about_ him? I couldn't just _never see him again_; I don't care what you say! And as for the investigation-"  
"It's a bad idea – what you've got going on here is foolish, at best, and at worst it's _dangerous_ – be reasonable, Sherlock! Leave it _alone!_"  
"You can't possibly comprehend what I'm going through. I need this, and I don't care what-"

I lost some more of the argument beneath the sound of myself going down the first flight of stairs.

"-has got to be the most stupid thing you have ever done, brother, and if it backfires on you as spectacularly as I suspect it will, I shan't be there to help. I'm washing my hands of this _debacle_,"  
"Fine! You're nothing more than a hindrance anyway. Close the door on the way out," That was definitely Holmes.

As I reached the top of the stairs that lead to the hall, I saw light appear from the door of Holmes' flat, and in the darkness, the silhouette of a man stepped out, and slammed the door behind himself, leaving the hallway very dark. I could just about make him out, as he stepped up to the door, and left, picking up his umbrella from the hooks as he went. He slammed the front door, too.

Holmes must have put him in a bad mood. The disagreement had sounded quite bad, and the fact it had taken place at about 2am probably didn't help.

I went to Holmes' front door, and stepped down the lit staircase, trying to make enough noise that he would hear me coming. I didn't want to frighten him, he sounded wound up enough as it was.

"What the bloody hell was that all about?" I wondered aloud, as I entered his living room. He looked flustered, and even _upset_, as he stood by the fireplace. The cellar looked even more dingy than normal, with a small lamp on rather than the overhead bulb.  
"My brother, Mycroft," Holmes told me, and I nodded, remembering how the other man had referred to him as 'brother'.

_Mycroft_. I thought to myself that bullies must have had a field day with both of the Holmes brothers' names, never mind their personalities.

"Ah. Me and my sister never got along either, really," I tried to create some common ground, to ease the tension Mycroft had left in the room.  
"Indeed," He replied. Strangely, though, he looked more upset than angry. He turned away, and faced his investigation wall. I wondered if this was to hide the fact that his eyes were watering. Perhaps with frustration, or with sadness. I didn't know him well enough to be able to tell, or to even witness this in the first place. I turned to leave.

"I-" He began, and I turned around. He steadied his voice, which was a little too deep, and tried again: "I'm sorry we woke you up,"  
"It's okay. I just wanted to check no one was about to get murdered," I half-joked.  
"Not this time," He replied, with a smile. I smiled back, following his lead, and then left.

As I settled back into my bed again, I heard something unexpected from two floors below. Not loud enough to disturb me, or keep me awake, but just _there_.

I could hear a violin being played. I remembered seeing its case in Holmes' flat at one point, as I listened silently to the song he was playing. He was very good, but the tune sounded sad and full of . . . _Regret_. I think that's what it was, anyway.

But now, I can't remember which song he played, or if he even played a song, or if I'd just imagined it as I was drifting off to sleep. It seemed a bit like a dream, or at least the soundtrack to one of my nightmares. Music was the only thing I really remembered of them.


	5. Chapter 5

_February, 2012_

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing that you were-"

The light of the computer shone up on his face, casting an eerie glow on it from below, as he looked at me blankly. A hint of an accusation crept into his voice. I didn't like this memory.  
"That I am what?" He asked, raising his eyebrows at me. He thought I didn't trust him. It almost broke my heart, when I saw how betrayed he looked.  
". . . A fraud," I finished, but my voice broke part way through, and I shut my eyes, willing the memory away, because I knew Donovan would be at the door to arrest Sherlock any moment now, and I couldn't go through that all again.

I opened my eyes, and I wasn't in a memory of things that had happened at 221b anymore: Sherlock was chasing me through a churchyard, trying to apologise for his outburst last night. As awkward a memory this was, I was glad to relive it. It was worth it for how it ended.

"It was more than that, John, I felt fear," He told me earnestly, grabbing my arm. I turned around, and looked at his face: I couldn't quite remember it as well as I'd liked to. I couldn't remember the exact colour of his eyes, so they shifted from green, to blue, to brown, to grey, and so on.

"I felt _doubt_,"  
"I should have seen that you were upset," I told my memory of him, "You were just so _angry_, and you said you didn't have friends, and I took it to heart because . . . Well, I felt that I meant something to you, but then when you said that, I came a bit unstuck. And then you said . . ."  
"Listen, John, what I said last night . . . It's true," Sherlock paused, and I looked at the floor for a moment, savouring the last time I'd think about this memory.

"I don't have friends," I looked up, and saw him, hands in pocket, staring at me from under a ridiculous curl of hair, as he finished quietly: ". . . I've only got one,"  
". . . And I knew I'd been right all along," I realised, ending my earlier sentence. "You know, even when I think about how you jumped, I think of this moment, because they're just so . . . It's just, this massive contradiction!"

He nodded, his face serious. I wished his eyes would stop changing colour; that I could remember them properly for them to stay the same, consistent with my memories.

"Why would you do that, if you cared about me? . . . You weren't lying when you said I was your friend, so you _did _care at one point,"  
"You're right. I did," He told me solemnly.

I sighed, and turned around, and I was in Irene Adler's house. Sherlock was lying on the floorboards, he might have been seizing, I couldn't quite remember. His eyes were squinting, the veins were sticking out from his neck, and he was white as a sheet.

"And must've I cared too, because otherwise I wouldn't have shouted at Irene so much," I recalled, and flew to Sherlock's side, just as I remembered it. "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? – What have you done? What have you given him?" I yelled at Irene, who I saw was sitting on the windowsill of the nearby bathroom. She shrugged.  
"Oh, don't worry. He'll be fine in a few hours. I've used it on all my friends . . . Just try and make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit, it makes for a rather ugly corpse," I snorted at that, because I couldn't remember if she'd actually said it, or if I'd added it in later.

Then she started going on about the combination to the safe downstairs, but I wasn't listening, because all I wanted to do was check Sherlock's pulse and put him in the recovery position. His cheeks went flushed, as I listened for his breathing, though obviously I'd lived through this once before and so knew he was going to be okay.

"I just wish I could have been there to save you that final time," I whispered to him. He passed out, and the memory faded. I looked down at him on the floor for the last time, sleeping, perhaps even dreaming, and I began to have the strongest pangs of regret about erasing him that I'd ever experienced.

* * *

_March, 2015_

I looked him up the day after that fight. I just googled his name, but there wasn't much to go on. I started to wonder if he'd had a legal battle or something, or some sort of gagging order, because there were a _lot _of deleted articles on news outlet websites. Maybe they'd slandered him in some way, and he'd caught them out, and made them apologise. Whatever had happened, it was unfathomable to me. I didn't remember hearing anything in the news about it, so it was probably covered up.

That was another thing that was starting to happen, too. I was starting to think like him in ways, and to be suspicious. He was forever telling me not just to see, but to _observe_, thought the difference between the two was a bit hazy to me.

It had been useful, though. Just, some of the techniques he'd taught me for telling a truly sick patient from a drug-seeking one – stuff like that. That particular example was a bit of a bad one, though, as when I asked how he'd learned how to deduce that, he'd looked very awkward and had muttered something about '_a lifetime ago . . . Several lifetimes ago, in fact'_.

That day, I was just nipping up to the shops, so I poked my head round Holmes' door to see if he needed anything. It was late afternoon; I'd done only a half day at the clinic.

"Can I come?" Holmes had inquired.  
"Um . . . What?"  
"With you, John. To the shops," He asked, sounding bored of the conversation already.  
". . . If you want. It's not a barrel of laughs," I warned him, half trying to dissuade him, but half looking forward to his company. What if it was awkward? – But what if it wasn't? I was sure we'd have things to talk about. The night before, for example.  
"Don't worry. I don't need entertaining," He flashed a brief, squinting smile at me, and I smiled back in kind.

He wrapped himself up in a big black coat and a blue scarf, both of which probably surpassed on their own the cost of my entire outfit. He was a man, I was sure, who prided himself on how he looked.

Usually, I'll get the bus to the shops, or a cab, if I can afford it. But as I approached the bus stop, my companion lightly took my arm, and told me:  
"I know a better way,"  
"I'm sorry?"  
"Through the park. Unless your leg is playing up again?"  
"No, my leg's . . . My leg's fine," I replied distractedly, looking dumbly down at the offending limb. I snapped out of my reverie, and replied, "Alright, then. Lead the way,"

We walked side by side through London in silence for a good while until we reached the park, which was at this time of year covered in melting snow, leafless trees and cold, soupy mud. I felt at ease in silence, and wondered if my neighbour did too. It was a good shortcut: I'd never seen him more at ease than today as he walked alongside me. I supposed he was just feeling smug about impressing me with his knowledge of London. I wondered how he'd kept it so fresh in his mind, having been abroad for so long.

But I just had to go and ask.

"Last night . . . Your brother sounded very angry about something," I ventured. He went a bit stiff, and I knew I'd touched a nerve. I went to apologise for imposing, but he simply replied:  
"He was angry about _me_. You know I've been out of the country for three years? . . . I didn't tell him where I was going. I just left, in the February of 2012. Scared the nosey bugger half to death,"  
"Why wouldn't you tell him?"  
"Because I needed to disappear. My brother is the biggest gossip in London. I wouldn't want him telling one of his government colleagues where I'd gone,"  
"Oh . . ."

I put two and two together.

". . . Hang on, 'disappear'?"

There was silence, as we walked, and I looked away from him, to the far side of the park; to the church with the graveyard and the large evergreen tree. I faintly remembered that someone I knew was buried there. A great grandfather, perhaps.

". . . You looked me up," Sherlock realised, but he didn't sound very surprised. More . . . Frustrated. "It's probably not wise to do so, John,"  
"Why not?"  
"Well, me telling you that would negate the order to _not look me up_ in the first place,"  
"What did you do? . . . You're not – you weren't in prison, were you?"

Abroad, my arse. He sounded as if he was getting a proper telling off from his brother. He'd gone a bit _weird _when I'd asked about his drug knowledge, too.

"No, John . . ." He sighed, looking conflicted. ". . . All I can really say is that, the media . . . They did some real damage to me. I used to work with the police, but there was a scandal – not my fault, but enough to ruin me. They ripped me to shreds. I couldn't live here anymore, so I went abroad. I made a quick getaway,"  
"Oh . . . Did you sue them? – I mean, it's just that they've deleted all the articles that have your name in the url-"

He smiled down at me, and nodded once.

"What kind of scandal?" I marvelled.  
"If you _must_ know, I was framed, for some very bad crimes. They called into question my methods. They imagined that I was going around committing crimes, just so I could solve them again – ludicrous, all of it. Jealousy of my deductive abilities was what lead to it,"  
"I see . . . That's awful," I told him, trying to empathise, but sounding incredibly pathetic.  
"Indeed," He agreed, and we walked in silence for a little bit longer.

We exited the park, and headed down the street towards the supermarket.  
"How's the case going?"  
"Hmm? Oh, the Lacuna case? . . . Well, I'll tell you later. Wouldn't want to be talking about it in the earshot of all these people," He said, indicating the crowds that now surrounded us with his changeable eyes.

"If you say so, Holmes," I replied.

He'd looked perfectly content before I'd said his name, but as soon as I said it, his face faltered, and darkened slightly.  
"You _can _call me Sherlock, you know. I call _you_ John – or are you not comfortable with that?" He asked, looking ever so slightly . . . Unhappy, I think didn't _quite _cover it. Bitter, maybe. Or regretful.  
"No, no – John's fine," I reassured him. He needed all the help he could get with any social interactions with _real people_ – it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination, I thought, to presume I was the only thing he had _close _to a friend. I mean, he had clients, colleagues . . . But friends?  
"Then call me Sherlock," He replied, with a tight little smile that was obviously forced from his miserable face.  
"Okay," I replied. I tried to remember that for next time.


	6. Chapter 6

_February, 2012 _

"Let him go," I growled loud enough to be heard over the presentation on the solar system, "Or I _will _kill you,"

Sherlock was struggling against the grip of a known murderer, who enjoyed strangling his victims; his neck in the hands of the giant. His eyes told me to shoot.

I'd said that, the first time, before I even really realised I'd said it. It just came out, it was really spontaneous, but I realised it was one hundred percent true. I'd never said anything truer in my life, I was pretty sure. And it felt great to say.

Before I knew it, the gun was out of my hand, and the Golem was running away. Sherlock picked up my gun, still on the floor, and took a few pot-shots at him, but it was no use. He was gone. My friend was so angry, he punched the floor and cursed. I think he thought I couldn't hear him.

Why was he so _angry_? We never caught the Golem in the end, but that's life. I know Sherlock never thought like that, but just, for once . . . Just _one time_ . . .

I crouched beside him, and put my hand on his face. He didn't react with shock, or fear, or surprise, because he wasn't _actual Sherlock_, I told myself. It was just my memory of him; of what he was like. I knew deep inside he wouldn't have leaned into my touch, or been instantly calmed by it, in real life. Had he been alive, I was sure this would have been a friendship-breaking moment.

Deviating from what actually happened in the memory – leaving the theatre, to go back to the flat, in a state of frustration at letting the murderer slip away – I scooped him up into a tight hug, because I didn't want him to be angry like he usually was. We were still sitting on the floor, but it didn't matter. One by one, the lights were going out. They were being erased.

I could feel his anger dissipate, or perhaps my memories of how angry he was be erased, as I held him tight. I found that I could just about remember what he smelt like, and the scent filled my nostrils, as I buried my face in his shoulder.

I didn't mean to say what I said next, but once it was out there, I realised it was completely true:  
"I don't want you to go . . ."  
"I have to, John," He whispered back.  
"I know, but . . . It's – it's just so _unfair_,"  
"As is life,"  
"Why'd you have to be so _rational _about this?" I asked him, pulling away from the embrace to look him in the eye.  
"Because that's who I am – you wouldn't want me if I wasn't like this,"  
"I wouldn't . . ." I put my hand on his face again, just to feel it. He was a bit cold, but as his eyes looked at me, they were warm and bright, and I realised.  
"I don't want this anymore," The tears began to well, _again_. "I can't forget you, Sherlock," I sobbed.  
"Shh . . ." He comforted me again, rubbing my shoulder. "It's okay. It'll be okay," The real Sherlock would have trouble with even the slightest of comforting, but this one was a bit more accommodating. Of course he was – I was the one creating him, after all.  
"No, it won't – I can't go back to living like I did before I knew you – I can't forget you – I can't live without you – but I can't live knowing you're dead-" I was becoming hysterical, when Sherlock's strong, sterner words hit me:  
"Then you have to find me again,"  
". . . What?" I asked, looking up at him through my tears. He appeared to be smiling at me, and he looked as if he pitied me.  
"I'll be gone soon," He told me. Another wave of sadness washed through me, but then he finished his sentence, "But I promise – it's not forever,"  
"What? – What does that mean?" I asked, suddenly alarmed. My hope had been painfully piqued, as he remained silent. I waited expectantly for an answer, gripping tightly to his arms.

But he'd begun to blown away, like a wisp of smoke, dissolving between my fingers.  
"No, no – Sherlock! – no, please!" I tried to catch him, but it was no use. He smiled at me as he disappeared. "Please-" I begged, "Just –just let me keep this memory – just this one-"

* * *

_March, 2015_

Insufficient funds. Two words that blighted my life, even with a GP's salary and a reduced rent flat. Harry was always 'borrowing' money, and she was family, so how could I say no?  
"Here," Holmes intervened, "I'll pay for that,"  
"No, you can't-"  
"It's my shopping too," He replied calmly. I dumbly let him move me aside, and inserted his card into the chip and pin machine of the self-service checkout.  
"Thanks – I'll pay you back-"  
"No, you won't. You've bought me enough tea these past few weeks," Holmes smirked a bit at that last comment, as if in on some private joke.

I made an unhappy face, but kept quiet.

When we left the supermarket, we walked home a different way than we'd come: not through the park, but down a posh-looking street, quite close to Baker Street, actually. Definitely NW1. With the two of us to carry the shopping, there was no need for the bus, and I enjoyed being a little out of my comfort zone.

However, abruptly, my neighbour stopped. He was staring up at a building we were about to pass by, still as a statue.  
"You alright?" I asked cautiously.  
"Yes, yes – actually, I need to stop for a bit. I have a bit of quick investigation to perform in this building. Will you be okay to carry this home, or do you want to wait?" He indicated the benches either side of the white, stone doorway and steps. The door was shining and dark blue-green, like the sea. I pursed my lips, looking at the amount of things I had to carry:  
"I'll wait,"  
"Ten minutes. Maximum," He promised, and then set his bags down, slipping into the building. The door was open, and there was a little bronze plaque next to the door that I only noticed when he'd disappeared.

_Lacuna, Inc. Founding branch. _

I sat down despondently on the nearest bench, pulling the huge amounts of shopping the PI had been carrying towards myself, and out of the path. There were a few spindly, leafless trees along this street; melting snow on the top of parked cars, and slush in the gutter. It was a bloody miracle that the bench was dry enough to sit on.

The sky looked like it might snow again, or rain on me. I consulted my watch, and wondered exactly what Holmes was doing in there. If they had the power to remove memories, then why would he go in there voluntarily? It all seemed a little dangerous to me.

I kind of wanted to go in myself. I knew it was wrong, but it was kind of thrilling. It didn't _look _like a criminal organisation, or a crime syndicate, but then again, did they ever?

But, as promised, he was back within the ten minute time frame. Shown out by a young woman with brown hair and very sharp, professional clothes, he smiled as he passed through the doorframe. "I'll see you on Sunday, then, Mr. Sigerson!"  
"And I you!" He called back cheerfully, his face much lighter and happier than I had ever seen it. He didn't look at all cynical, for once.  
"Oh – hello, Doctor Watson! Is everything alright?" She asked brightly, not sounding like she was in any way trying to disguise the fact she worked for the shady organisation.

I was a bit taken aback, until I looked at her for a little while longer. She looked vaguely familiar – I suspected maybe I'd seen her at the clinic a few times, or something. Actually . . . No, that was it. She must have been a medical student on placement at the clinic. I knew she was in the healthcare profession, definitely, just from _looking _at her. I was a bit puzzled as to why she was working for Lacuna. I couldn't quite remember her name, but she had a familiar face, so I played it safe.

"Yeah, everything's fine. Just waiting for Sigerson," I felt stupid using the fake name, but what else could I do? "He promised to help me carry all this home, and then buggered off. Typical,"  
"Aww – you make a very cute couple," She replied, smiling sweetly.  
"Oh no, we're not-"  
"Afternoon," Holmes cut in, bidding her goodbye as he picked up most of the shopping and shuffled along the pavement. I cursed myself internally, as she shut the door with a wave, and I was left making corrections to thin air.

I caught Holmes up with some trouble.  
"What did you say to her? – You used a fake name?"  
"Indeed, I did. Frederic Sigerson is a Norwegian-born explorer wishing to forget his memories of a traumatic mugging in Paris two years ago. He still has nightmares," He told me, not looking down at me but grinning to himself.  
"Is it true? Were you mugged?"  
"Me? No. During my travelling I rarely went out by day, but when I did, not many people dared to approach me,"  
"Right . . . But – what if it was dangerous? In there, I mean?"  
"Not a problem. I had a full persona, I'd even booked ahead to get a very brief consultation. Sigerson is a _very _busy man, he's off to Montpellier at four o'clock," He told me.  
"Are you going back then, on Sunday?" I asked, slightly aghast at the reams of detail he'd invented about this fictional character.  
"No," He snorted gleefully, "Sigerson will be very ill on Sunday. He won't be able to attend. After all, I just needed to get inside, to see how it's all arranged in there,"  
"Why did you need that?"  
"All useful data for my investigation," He answered cryptically; or, perhaps, that was just his computer-like way of putting off telling the truth.

We kept walking, the wind picking up, as it began to spit slightly. The weather was miserable at the moment. The wind picked up slightly.

"She knew my name . . ." I muttered to myself.  
"Hmm?" My neighbour replied. He hadn't heard me over the wind, I supposed.  
"I said, 'she knew my name' – that woman from Lacuna. I think I might have seen her around at the clinic or something, but I never spoke to her. But she knew my name,"  
"Oh yes," He replied thoughtfully, "I think I may have mentioned you at some point,"  
"Ah,"

There was something else getting to me, though. A question left unanswered.

As we passed the bus stop I'd been waiting at earlier, I realised.  
_". . . your leg . . .?"_

. . . I'd never mentioned that before.  
Not to Holmes.  
Not ever.

* * *

_Thanks a lot for your reviews; my apologies for the late updates. _


	7. Chapter 7

_February, 2012. _

"Put me somewhere I'm not supposed to be,"

I opened my eyes.

My therapist's office. It was the first place that came to mind, but I deeply regretted taking Sherlock there from the first second I realised that's where we were. This was a private memory . . . I couldn't afford to let him see it – but that type of thought was out of the window now. This was a desperate time, and it's not even as if he was _real _Sherlock, anyway. Just a memory, who lived, and breathed, and talked back, if only inside my head.

I sat in my usual chair, facing Sherlock, who sat exactly as Ella did: same pose, same clipboard, same annoying tendency to fiddle with her pen. He even had a suit in the same awful light brown colour she usually wore, thankfully without the skirt. Small mercies.

"Where are we?" He asked, looking around the office with raised eyebrows. "I suppose we've deviated from reverse chronological order of your memories," _That_ sounded more like the Sherlock I knew.  
"Ella's office,"  
"Oh. And who am I?" He asked, looking down at how he was sitting, and sneering at the colour he was dressed in.  
". . . Ella," I said, wondering if Sherlock would have been able to deduce this fact in real life.  
"I see," He looked down at my notes, and gave a low, amused whistle. "You should have sacked her way back. She couldn't have been more wrong,"

I snatched the notes from him.

"Yeah, alright – why did you want me to bring you here anyway? I don't understand what you said before,"  
"Are you sure?" He snapped back, his face completely still aside from his lips; his expression frozen.  
"What?" I frowned.  
"Are you sure you don't understand . . . ?"  
". . . Um, yes, Sherlock, I'm sure,"  
"Then you haven't changed much since I've been away. As always, you see, but you do not _observe_ – or perhaps in this situation, you heard what I said, but you didn't _listen_,"  
"Enlighten me then – and quickly," The lights, I could see down the corridor, were going out, one by one.

"I meant it, when I said it wasn't forever,"  
"_What_ isn't forever?" I asked, leaning forward in my chair. Unfortunately, as this was a memory from directly after Sherlock had died, my leg ached, but I tried to pay no attention to it.  
"My absence – oh, come on, John, you _must _have suspected. No one can truly fake their death completely accurately in our day and age. Well, perhaps Irene managed to, but then she made the fatal mistake of coming to see _you _afterwards. A mistake I have here repeated,"  
"What the fuck are you talking about? – what you're saying you faked your death?"

Sherlock smirked, and clapped slowly and sarcastically. With every clap, another light went out. He watched them go out, and sighed.  
"I suppose this memory bought us time, but nothing could put the erasure off forever,"  
"No – no, there must be a way," I stood up, and went to the large window by the side of my seat. I put my hands on it, and they balled up into fists. Sherlock joined me, swooping in theatrically and standing at my side. I looked down at my feet, and gritted my teeth.

I felt his arm creep around my shoulder in comfort. The Sherlock that had been acting so like himself before was now acting in a way that _wasn't _himself – unless . . .  
. . . Unless he'd always _wanted_ to act like this, but couldn't. Not in real life, where he was first and foremost a sociopath, a freak, an infallible, unpredictable, unlovable consulting detective . . .

But when I looked up and into his eyes once more, just as they started to fade away like they always did at the end of a memory, I knew that it was a facade. Just a facade. He never wanted to get hurt – well, he'd failed. He'd killed himself – no, he'd _faked_ his death, if what he was telling me now was true.

It was too much to take in. I was sure I was just in denial, still trying to prove to myself that _he wasn't dead. He can't be dead. Please, God no_ –

"I don't want this anymore!" I screamed, gripping the sides of my head. "I don't _want _this! I don't _want_ to forget him! I don't_ want _him to go_! _I want to_ keep _him_, please! Stop it, _cancel it,_ stop _what you're doing and _let him stay!" _

As my screams became more and more loud and incoherent, the emphasis scattered; even the yelling couldn't match the power of the gentle hand on my shoulder, pulling me close to his chest, where my cries became muffled, and eventually, faded away altogether. . .

* * *

_March, 2015. _

I didn't call Holmes out on the fact that he'd known about my leg. I didn't enjoy confronting that man, because he just seemed to know everything I was thinking, and what's more, he knew it before _I _did. He scared me; he knew far too much. I was beginning to think I'd managed to get a stalker.

Why were these things happening? Things I couldn't really explain. How had he known about my leg? Right, he'd probably deduced it, okay, fine. But it was just a coincidence that I hadn't even noticed his referring to it: I realised I'd just assumed I'd already told him, and we'd slipped into our usual routine of walking alongside each other, just like normal.

But that was the _point_. I'd _never _gone outside with Sherlock; never walked alongside him, in all my memory. And yet it felt so right, so familiar. I don't know if you've ever heard of the uncanny – I googled it, because I remembered it from a module I'd done at Uni on Psychology. It's part of all that Freud bullshit – the subconscious, the unconscious, blah blah blah. But the uncanny . . . It's when something is simultaneously incredibly familiar, and yet completely strange.

That's what Sherlock was, to me. Uncanny.

So I found myself looking at my reflection late into the day, as the dark crept in, and I should have turned the lights on in 221b. I looked, because I wondered what about my appearance could have _possibly _have given it away. Not my clothes: the wear I used to get on one shoe compared to the other, due to my limp, was a thing of the past; as was the rubbing on the inner leg of my trousers. I'd replaced all the clothes I'd worn since my therapist had gotten me through my PTSD three or so years ago. I didn't like to think about that time, but now it was necessary. I felt like I was, for lack of better words to describe it, losing it.

I dove into the back of my cupboard, under all the hanging clothes, through the two or three pairs of shoes, and grabbed the shoebox with my war photos in it. The sensation of material all around me made me feel like I was six again, and hiding, and making a fort out of spare sheets and clothes pegs. The only thing to bring me back to reality was that shoebox. It reminding me that I was all grown up now, and a soldier, and wounded and unexplainably . . . _Sad_.

The photos calmed me, though. I felt less like I was completely batshit crazy when they were in my hands: solid, real, confirmed. Not some half-remembered notion, or something familiar and/or unfamiliar. Just photograph paper, curling at the corners.

As I scrambled out of the cupboard, the old cane I used to use fell out: a stark reminder of my past; my dependence on others; how much of a burden was.

But to who? I couldn't remember anyone I'd been specifically a burden _on_. Harry and Clara had their own mound of troubles without me interfering and adding to it; Mrs. Hudson was just my landlady; mum and dad were gone. Who, then? My therapist? Not by _any _stretch of the imagination.

All that was left was a feeling, that something I used to rely on was gone, though I couldn't put a face to that something, or someone.

. . . It was getting late. I was hungry. And thirsty. These things helped distract me from my own personal elephant in the room.

So, I made my way downstairs as I usually did, to Mrs. Hudson's flat, to see if she wanted any tea.

I must have been sitting and staring for much longer than I thought, because her lights were all off when I descended; even the hall light was dimmed to its lowest setting, leaving a subdued atmosphere to the whole area. I was disappointed not to see her: she was just so comforting to be around, and I was hoping she'd remedy my crazy existential crisis. It was a long shot, but now that I knew she wouldn't be around until morning, I despaired.

That left only one more door to turn to.

Cautiously, I turned to the left, my head rotating slowly, as if I was afraid of what I would see when I looked at the door of 221c. It just felt so _wrong_. Everything was wrong, inexplicable, and just . . . Just. . . Fucking insane.

Maybe I _was_ insane. It was just a passing comment. About a leg that sometimes played up when I was stressed. No big deal.

But I found myself pushing Holmes' door open, slowly persisting forward, determined to call him out on it, even though I shouldn't have been in his flat without permission that late. He'd most likely hear me coming; there was no way he'd be asleep. I don't think he ever slept.

But when I approached the front door of the gloomy pit that he lived it, I found the key in the lock, almost as if he had been expecting me, and inviting me in. It was locked, but with a turn of the inviting key, and a substantial _clunk_, it creaked slowly open like a cliché from a bad horror film.

Holmes was nowhere to be found. His fireplace had a small bar lamp in it where the fire should have been, and I smirked at how fitting that was for him. It seemed almost clinical. Or prison-like.

I didn't turn the main light on, for the fear that he was asleep in the next room; I looked through the bedroom door, and saw no sleeping private investigator. I still neglected to find the switch that would make the entire place unnaturally and unbearably bright.

What did catch my eye, however, was something that was draped carefully on the back of the one armchair.

My heart felt as if it stopped when I saw the jumper. My queasy sensation of simultaneous familiarity and unfamiliarity peaked, and I found that my breath caught; my throat seemed to stick to itself, as if I'd been running for miles and miles and _miles _in the Afghani heat.

The sleeves were folded carefully underneath it, and it was ironed. I touched the material, dumbstruck and confused; though I felt like I could almost understand how the jumper was there. It was horizontally striped, and in the dim light, the stripes appeared off-white and blue-black.

All I knew is that I hadn't seen it for many years. And it was _mine_.

"John," – A voice from behind me, undoubtedly that of Sherlock Holmes – "You and I need to have a difficult conversation. . ."


	8. Chapter 8

_February 2012_

Breathlessness. Adrenaline. Fatigue. They were all part of why I loved to run with Sherlock Holmes, even when I couldn't keep up.

His cape-like coat billowed black in front of me, as we chased something, someone – I couldn't remember who – across rooftops. His running style was methodical, almost robotic in its efficiency, as was the only thing that would really suit his personality. My style was more flailing, scrambling: I didn't have his precision, or speed, but I had stamina enough to cope with him.

But this time, I was losing him. He leapt across a cavernous gap between two buildings: easy for him, with his long legs, but as I unquestionably jumped the gap, trusting his judgement all the way, I realised that it was too far. Obviously in real life, I'd made it, and caught up with Sherlock, but this time it was different. I couldn't catch up with him, but I couldn't stop.

The blackness swallowed me up, as I fell, silent, to the ground below.

And then I was at the bank.

I shook my head, smiling blithely at how fucked up this entire memory erasing process was. The inertia of falling was still with me; it took me a few seconds to register that I was sitting in a chair, in a waiting room, with my colleague sitting next to me. But it was definitely the bank. The reverse chronological order had been restored again; my life was flashing before my eyes again, in reverse.

I needed a few seconds to settle in, but Sherlock didn't have a few seconds to spare.

"Do you think we would have been friends if we'd met at university?" He asked. I looked at him questioningly, but then followed his line of sight: he was staring at Sebastian, who was speaking into his overpriced phone in his showy office with that sickening smug grin. I remembered he'd kept us waiting nearly half an hour, despite the fact that he was the one who'd summoned us, and we'd arrived as soon as we could.

"Probably not," I acknowledged glumly, "I'd have been at medical school. And there's no way I'd have gotten into Oxford, or wherever it was you went,"  
"Hmm . . . You're probably right. I was into a lot of very bad habits during my university years anyway,"  
"What? . . . Wrong crowd?" I asked, hopefully.  
"Wrong crowd – wrong family," He shrugged. "Mainly, I wanted to annoy my father and Mycroft. Plus, it was the best form of escapism from the dullness of life that I could find,"  
"Wow," I said, though I knew that this information was totally made up: I'd never asked about the drugs, and now my subconscious was making up the story Sherlock was telling me . . . Right? "You could have been so different. I'm glad you ended up on the right side of the police, after all that,"  
"You could have been different. You might never have been shot,"

He stood up at this point, and began to run. I noticed that the corridor next to us had become a filthy, brick-walled alleyway, reminiscent of one of the ones we'd ended up racing through when chasing the rogue taxi cab like a pair of lunatics.

He shot off into the darkness, and it was all I could do to endlessly chase him again.

I heard his voice calling back, though it wasn't affected by the exercise he was doing, so maybe the voice was all in my head – well, it was all just in my head, really. This whole situation: patched together from memories, and feelings, and notions, and coats and alleyways and voices-

". . . You might never have been wounded . . ."

I panted, trying to lengthen my strides; squinting so I could still see him-

". . . You might never have been invalided home . . ."

It didn't matter what I did, he stayed the same distance away; no, the distance was increasing-

". . . You might never have met me . . ."

He was disappearing into the dark, and I was calling soundlessly, wordlessly, for him to come back, to come home-

". . . And everything would have been different . . ."

But I couldn't keep him anymore. I had to stop running. I had to let him go, with the knowledge that maybe, _just maybe,_ he would come back to me one day:

". . . For it would have been another world . . ."

* * *

_March, 2015_

"You're damn right!" I shouted at him, "Are you stalking me or something?" He opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it, remaining grim-faced and silent. It was almost as if he wanted me to continue, to vent my anger; I was happy to give him what he wanted.  
"I mean, why would you have this? It's mine! – And, and you knew about my leg – you mentioned it earlier!" I yelled, ". . . You asked if I'd be okay walking . . ."

I eventually took in his appearance, in the gaps between my words. He wore all black, fairly unusually, and in his hand was a battered leather briefcase I'd seen somewhere before, but couldn't place. He wore black leather gloves, the same from earlier, though in the context of his all black outfit and solemn, sombre expression, they became more sinister and _dodgy_.

". . . Where have you been?" I whispered, rapt as I put two and two together. "You look like you've been . . . You look like a-"  
"It wasn't stealing," He announced quickly and quietly, like a child being told off, "Because this belongs to you,"

He simply brought his hand forward, his arm outstretched for me to take the case. I stared dumbly at it, and then up into his eyes.  
"Well, the briefcase isn't. That belongs to someone else. But the contents are yours,"  
"Oh, good to know," I said, trying to sound sarcastic but sounding altogether more fragile than I'd wanted.

Eventually, I took it, trying not to touch his skin, in case he suddenly launched forward and attacked me or something. Stuck in a flat, with a stalker. That's the situation I thought I was in.

"Please, sit. You're going to need to," He told me, indicating the seat, but taking the jumper in his own hands. I desperately wanted to turn the light on as he turned away, just so I could see what he was doing with it. It could be _anything_. I was completely on edge – this was just _surreal _by now.

I did as he said, not wanting to upset him. He remained facing away from me, silent, for a long time. But, at length, he slowly turned around, his eyes narrowed, but some spark of emotion behind them that I couldn't quite place.

"Does it ever strike you as odd, John Watson, that many things in your life don't make any sense?"  
"Look, Holmes," I said, rubbing my face with my hand, and sighing. Perhaps if I pretended to be tired – despite being completely awake and on edge – he'd let me go . . . "I-"  
"There it is again!" He hissed, almost aggressive. "John-"

As he spoke he swooped down, putting his hands on the briefcase, which I'd rested across my laps. I stared at him, wide eyed with surprise, as he looked me in the eye with an inescapable gaze.  
"What's my name, John? . . . Hmm?" He asked, as my eyes moved minutely, his head jerked with them, making sure we had perpetual eye contact. He looked almost reptilian as he did this, and I'm not ashamed to say that I was slightly frightened of him.  
"Your name is Holmes-"  
"No, what's my _name_?" He said, changing the emphasis.  
"Sherlock Holmes," I whispered back, confused.  
"No, what's _my name_? My _first name_?" He persisted, sounding angrier, or perhaps more desperate every time. Finally, I understood.  
"Your name's Sh-" There was a lump in my throat, like I'd forgotten how to say the word.  
"You can do it, John," He said, sounding almost comforting, and a little sad. His hand crept under the briefcase, to clutch onto my knee tightly.  
"You're hurting me, Sh . . . Sher . . ."

Why were there tears in my eyes? The pain in my knee didn't hurt that much; the gaze wasn't so intense.

Slowly, he reached to the clasp on the briefcase with his spare hand, and let it spring open. I was presented with a pile brown files, like the police might use for criminals, or murder victims.

"I don't understand," I mumbled, wiping my eyes and sniffing. "Why do you have my, my file – my jumper-"  
"That is a file from Lacuna, Inc.," He told me, almost too quiet to hear, "It's your, John," I'd never heard him like this before. He was emotional, and broken, and completely desperate.

The type-written font at the top right hand corner of said file confirmed his story. But it couldn't be true.  
"What else doesn't make sense, John? – Think! Why did you go to Angelo's that day? You should have been at work, and yet you chose to go there, like you _knew _I'd be there! And my knowing about your leg – the jumper-"  
"You can get them in loads of shops, Sherlock," I rationalised.

A sharp intake of breath.

I said it. I said his name.

I took out my file slowly, revealing one beneath it labelled _Ron Adair_: the boyfriend of the woman Sherlock had had a consultation with in his flat a few weeks ago.

I opened my file:

Watson, John Hamish  
221b Baker Street  
39 years of age  
Doctor at a general practise  
Wishes to forget 'Sherlock', (consulting detective, 34) a very close best friend, flatmate and colleague who has publicly committed suicide. Watson still has very strong feelings for his best friend, which he never managed to share with him while alive. It is the stress of this trauma, and the re-emerging of his latent PTSD tendencies that has brought him to Lacuna, Inc. on the recommendation of his therapist.

I looked up.

"You're . . . You're – Sherlock?"

The private investigator had his bright blue eyes shut, his gaunt, pale face below me a ghostly shade of pale in the electric bar light, looking tired and worn. But he nodded once.

"Sherlock Holmes . . . Consulting detective . . ."  
"Yes, that's right," Sherlock said, his tone mournful, lamenting the fact that he'd never get me, _his me_, back the same as I was before. "Listen, John, I don't blame you for-"  
". . . The only one in the world . . . You invented the job . . ." I finished.

His eyes opened suddenly, and he looked up in surprise and shock. I'd remembered that.

Slowly, I pushed the briefcase onto the floor, not caring that the files spilled out. I leaned forward, and reached behind the consulting detective's head, my hands feeling the soft but insistent curls as if for the first time, while simultaneously feeling as if they were welcoming me back, welcoming me _home_.

The other hand crept up to his jaw line, gently tilting his head up so he could easily look me in the eye.  
"Sherlock – I missed you so much-"I whispered to the self-proclaimed sociopath, who was now silently crying in front of me, washing away his cold demeanour just as he had on the day that he'd jumped to his death in front of me. "-I'm so sorry-"

And, with that, I pulled him in closer. I don't know which one of us decided it would be a kiss, and not just a hug. Neither do I know who was the first to whisper, "I love you,"

All that mattered is that we _did_.


	9. Chapter 9

_February, 2015_

The door of the lab shut quietly behind me, as I remembered a time when I never cried. Not even alone – let alone in front of anyone.

I was over the denial, now, and the anger. The bargaining was through; only depression and sad acceptance remained, as Sherlock looked up from his microscope. This memory was old: patches of wall faded in and out of focus; chunks of scenery were simply _missing_. The important parts remained, though: me and Sherlock. Sherlock and I.

I strode over to him, and just this once, his eyes didn't shift in colour: I remembered them, in their full, analytical glory, that first time we met. I remembered too his sharp black suit, his crisp white shirt, his shining black shoes. He was the first to speak.

"You know what this means," He told me, and I nodded:  
"Yeah, Sherlock. I know," I didn't want to say it, or even hear him say it, but he did:  
"This is our first memory. And our last, I suppose. I'll be gone soon. Time's almost up," He spoke more softly than he ever had in real life, as if to a girlfriend, or a boyfriend.

A smiled a small smile, and embraced him in a last tight hug. It took all my strength to make it short; to make it not last forever, in a childish attempt to prevent him leaving me forever.

He hugged me back, and whispered in my ear:  
"Remember that it's not forever,"  
"I know . . . I'm scared," I confessed frankly after a second's hesitation.  
"Don't be . . . A few more years, that's all. You won't even know I'm gone,"  
"That's what I'm afraid of," I pulled away, and simply held his thin arms in my hands. "Before you, I was just _so broken_. My leg – well, no, it's more like my entire mind was damaged, and fragile. But when you came along, I felt alive again – I don't want to go back to before that feeling . . . I don't want to go back to being me before you,"  
"But you must," He replied. He looked up, and I followed suit. The roof disappeared: there were stars above it, and I almost laughed as I remembered the tantrum Sherlock had indulged in when I'd published his lack of knowledge of the solar system on my blog. Almost.

"I've done all I can. I can't guarantee you'll remember me, but I'm stubborn, as you know. I won't be defeated easily," He told me, smiling, because he knew what I was thinking. It didn't matter that this wasn't real anymore.  
"I wouldn't have you any other way," I replied honestly.

We stared silently up at the ever-darkening black the sky, as the white walls disappeared, and the memory broke down completely, leaving just me and Sherlock. I began to feel sleepy, but I forced myself to stay awake, because Sherlock was whispering to me:

". . . Meet me at Angelo's . . . Three year's time, I'll come back for you . . . I promise . . ."

And then Sherlock Holmes was gone from my life.

* * *

_March, 2015_

"I always knew I'd fucked up. With you, I mean," He breathed in my ear.

I pressed my hot hand to the cool wall I was facing. We were lying on Sherlock's sad, single bed, pressed up against each other – it's the only way for two grown men to lie on one single bed. Spooning, like lovesick teenagers.

"Why? Because you faked your own death?" I muttered sarcastically.  
"No. Because I told you I was a sociopath," He replied in a regretful tone.

I frowned at the wall, squinting to see it as we lay completely in the dark.  
"You lied?" I asked, confused.  
"No," He insisted gently, "I just thought I was telling the truth at the time,"  
"Oh," I replied, calmly trying to take this information in.  
". . . But when I started to care about you – more than I'd ever cared about anyone in my life – I knew I'd scuppered my chances by telling you that . . . So, in a way . . . This is a fresh start, for me. I'm going to do it right this time. I can't promise I'll always be perfect, because I'm still me – but I'm going to do right by you, John," He vowed.

My brow line softened at his words: they still sounded like him – his stiff tones; his pompous attitude only seemed to intensify when he wasn't totally sure of himself, as he was when he was talking about the _feelings_ he experienced and had always hated . . . Until now.

I wondered how I'd ended up here. I could vaguely remember my time with Sherlock, pre-fall. I got snippets, here and there. A bank waiting room. The stage of a theatre. Shooting across a courtyard, and making tea, and a tunnel, and a scratch on the dining table, and a ringing phone booth, _ringing and ringing and ringing-_

I grunted slightly: the memories were blindingly painful, as they all came back at once, all playing out at the same time, like the most grating, grinding headache I'd ever had, but _infinitely _worse.

"Shh," Sherlock murmured, "You don't have to do that right now. It'll come back, eventually,"  
". . . How do you know?" I asked in a small, scared voice. I felt him clench his jaw, which was rested against my bare shoulder.  
"Because you are John Watson – that's why," He told me, through gritted teeth, though there was a tone of pride in his voice, "And you never gave up on me. Not really. Not ever," He reached around my torso, took my hand, and squeezed it. It was so stupid, to constantly be checking that we were both still there, still alive, but after what had happened, it was hard to believe that any of this was even reality any more.

"So you think I – I _kept _some memories back? And how do you reckon I managed that?"  
I felt him shrug. I smirked.  
"You don't know? . . . _Sherlock Holmes _doesn't know?" I asked, in a half-mocking tone.  
"Sorry, I can't be proficient in advanced neuroscience _as well as_ being the world's only consulting detective," He drawled. "And besides, they _do _claim a 99.3% success rate – perhaps you're part of the 0.7%, John," He trailed off, lost in thought again. Even though I remembered feeling infuriated by this habit of his before the fall, I could jump for joy to hear him be consumed by his own thoughts once more.

After a few minutes, I turned around to face him, sitting up: my face was suddenly grim, as I recalled the files I'd let spill onto the floor. He propped himself up on one elbow, losing his grip on me, and frowning – from what I could see in the very limited light.

"Sherlock . . ." I began tentatively, ". . . Those other files. We have to tell someone what's going on at that place. What if there's another . . . _Couple_, out there, like us? . . . If that's what we are . . ."

He sighed, and lay down beside me, folding his hands across his chest – though it looked slightly comical, what with the small line of space he had on the thin bed.

"I had considered that . . . I wanted to see how you would react first," He said, ignoring my last comment. He never really liked to label us.

I looked down the bed, and thought about it for a few minutes.

"I never knew I'd lost something until you showed up again, and started getting closer to me. Then it was like . . . The closer you got, the sadder I felt, but I couldn't understand why. I had awful dreams, I felt empty, and I was confused, but . . ." I drew my eyes back to meet his, and smiled fondly down at him. "I think you can say this whole thing was a success, in the end,"  
"Indeed," His smile curled around his words.  
". . . The investigation won't be complete if we don't give closure to those involved, Sherlock,"  
"You're referring to sentiment, I suppose?" He asked, sounding slightly disgusted.  
"You've proved you love me. You went to hell and back for me, pretty much – can't you extend some of that care to others?"  
"No," He said flatly.

I chuckled, and snaked down beside him again, out of the cold air that surrounded us, back to the warmth that he gave off. I think there was once a time I'd called him cold; '_you_ _machine . . ._' – I couldn't have been more wrong. He'd sent me away under false pretences in order to save me.

Because that's what friends did, as I'd lectured him that same day. Friends protect people . . . If only I had known. Everything would have been different – it would have been another world . . . I shivered.

"Fine. But, listen – this bed . . ."  
"It's been sufficient until now, John," He said defensively.  
"Yes, but, well . . . Mine's a bit better – bigger, too. You know . . . In 221b,"

I could almost hear his surprised blink.

"You want me to move back in?"  
"Of course I bloody do, Sherlock. I can't leave you down here on your own, now, can I?"

There was a long pause. His breathing was deep, and I was afraid he'd fallen asleep.

". . . Thank you," How I'd missed that deep voice. I couldn't quite place my finger on it yet, but I was well on my way to realising how much that voice had filled me with joy; how much it'd meant to me.

At that moment, I was happy just to let it talk to me, as I fell softly asleep.

* * *

_That was the last chapter, but there will be an epilogue. Thanks for all the reviews, favourites and alerts. :)_


End file.
